Red
by Loretta Lyon
Summary: This is nonsense written to give Jane a friend - Just ONE! - separate from Kurt Weller, the FBI, and her investigation. This is just for fun and is - as I said - nonsense. The T rating is for all the swearing.


I offer my sincerest apologies for this story. I wanted Jane to have a friend - ONE - that was separate from the FBI and Kurt Weller. Then this popped into my head. I wrote it in about an hour. I have given it the most cursory reviews. Any errors and inconsistencies are - naturally - mine.

That being said, I am making no money off of this. This is for entertainment only. The rating is due to the amount of swearing in the story.

 **BlindspotBlindspotBlindspotBlindspotBlindspot**

Afterward, Jane would wonder if it was the contrast that first caught her attention. She, occasionally, would ponder how monochromatic her life – this life, her new life – seemed. Someone had used a gray palette to color her reality. Sure, some of the tattoos had subtle color schemes, but Jane was thinking more figuratively than literally. And when she considered her situation, it seemed…bleak.

She started jogging in the mornings. It didn't make her protection detail happy, but Jane had reached a point where she cared less about their opinions and more about keeping her sanity. The running helped, although she had to dip into the stipend that the FBI had granted her to buy better shoes. The shin splints she suffered through during that first week of running made the purchase very necessary. Now she was out running every day.

It helped. It helped to clear her mind; a counter-intuitive thought as one might assume that with a gaping black hole where her memories should have been, there would be less need to clear her mind. That was not the case. The few old memories she had along with the new memories she had started forming when she woke up in that duffle bag in Times Square chased each other around and around her echoing brain. At times it was deafening. At least when she was running the rhythm of her steps, the tempo of her breath, the external noise of city traffic, of New Yorkers talking, laughing, shouting became music that distracted her from her thoughts for a little while.

The only other thing that came close was being the field. In the field, she had purpose. Even without FBI training, she was good at what she did – at analyzing situations, of charging forward when there was a need, of holding back or of stalking the enemy when such tactics were appropriate. She was an asset in the field, no matter what anyone else said – including Weller. Perhaps her ways were unconventional, but she got the job done. (That thought was hard to hang on to, sometimes, thanks to Weller with his (occasional) moodiness, Reade with his attitude, and Mayfair with her judging looks.)

After a few weeks of running – and she switched up her route every day. No sense in getting sloppy, of getting predictable – she noticed some of the other regular morning runners in the neighborhood: a teenager who was up at the ass crack of dawn every week day, but skipped Saturdays and Sundays, a white-haired man who moved slow, but kept a steady pace, and the red-headed woman.

It really was the red-head that caught the lion's share of Jane's attention. Jane suspected it had to do with the new-copper-penny brightness of the woman's hair. It was always scraped back in a tight ponytail, but that didn't disguise its color.

She was shorter than Jane, petite and with a slightly pudgy belly. She, like the older man, didn't run all that fast, but she toiled on. The few times she and Jane had passed each other, Jane noticed that the look on her face was of fierce concentration, a deep wrinkle set between her eyebrows – at least, until she met Jane's eye. Then the red-head would quirk a wry grin and nod in a friendly way as the two women passed each other.

Jane thought about mentioning to Dr. Borden how that neighborly smile made Jane feel less alone for a few minutes. But she never did. She told Borden a lot, but not this. This seemed a bit too pathetic – that Jane was so hungry for a connection with someone - anyone - that a simple smile made her feel good.

That would have been an end of it, probably. Jane and the other joggers were fixtures in the neighborhood, but there would be nothing to connect them. Perhaps luck – or fate – stepped in on the morning of the accident.

Jane was almost through with her run. An agent whose name she thought was Patel had drawn the short straw that morning and was jogging with her. They were a block and a half away from the safe house when a sports car sped through the intersection – despite the fact that the light was decidedly red – and t-boned another car. The force of the crash pushed the sedan into some parked cars, effectively trapping the other driver inside.

Jane put on a burst of speed, wanting to get to the accident to see if she could help. Coming from the opposite direction, the red-head was doing the same.

The woman reached the ominously smoking sports car before Jane did and wrenched open the driver's side door. She was easing the driver out of his seat when Jane – and her shadow – arrived. Agent Patel helped the woman carry the man away from the vehicle that was now furiously belching smoke. Jane forced the gear shift into neutral before putting her back into pushing…pushing…pushing the car away from the sedan. Then Red was there, lending a hand, as well as Agent Patel.

Once the sports car was far enough out of the way, Red started giving clear, concise orders to Patel. The two worked at getting to the other driver. Jane heard the wail at about the same time Red did. The women's eyes met before both jerked to look at the backseat of the sedan. "Get the baby!" Red needlessly commanded. Jane was already moving, gingerly knocking glass out of the back seat window before reaching in and fumbling with the child seat restraints. The kid was young. Jane had no clue as to how to guess the age. He – judging from the fire trucks and cop cars on his outfit – was a light burden. Once he was free from the safety belts, it was easy enough to scoop him up and lift him through the window.

By the time that all three victims were over on the far side of the street, with the sports car burning sluggishly, and twisted glass and metal littering the street, the first rescue personnel had arrived. Red was tersely reporting about concussions, whiplash and a pneumothorax to the paramedics. The injured – including the baby – were packed up into ambulances while Jane, Patel, and Red gave their statements.

It didn't take all that long before they were dismissed. The cops had their contact information, should any additional information be required. Then, cops and firefighters went about their business. Red offered that same wry grin that Jane was becoming familiar with. "Nice work there, lady."

"Ah...thanks." Jane wondered if she'd ever stop feeling awkward speaking to strangers. "You, too, Red." Knowing that it couldn't hurt to try, she added, "I'm Jane."

Red's smile grew a bit more genuine and she offered her hand to Jane. "I'm Ariana."

Jane couldn't stop the hiss that escaped when they shook hands. Ariana frowned and immediately adjusted her grip to hold Jane's wrist. As she inspected Jane's palm, Ariana echoed the hiss in sympathy. Then she looked up and demanded, "Jesus Christ, Jane! Why the fuck didn't you say something."

Even though Ariana sounded irate, Jane found herself smiling. "I don't think I knew about it until just now."

"Idiot," grumbled Ariana. "C'mon. My apartment's a couple doors down. Let's get you stitched up."

"Stitched…" Jane's voice asked the question.

"I'm a doctor." Ariana shrugged. "I've got the stuff I need at my place. I can patch you up more quickly than at the ER." She finally let go of Jane's wrist. "Let's go."

"Wait, I can't allow that." Patel finally broke in. It earned him an astonished scowl from the doctor.

"Allow?" She demanded. "I beg your pardon. Who the hell are you to allow anything?"

"I'm Agent Patel with," but she interrupted him.

"Your parents named you 'Agent?' What an odd choice."

That seemed to flummox him. His mouth gaped as he struggled to find his words again. "I'm with the FBI," he tried.

"Congratulations. Never had much use for the Feds, but I'm sure your parents are very proud. Do people call you Agent Agent Patel?" Ariana mused, reaching out to latch onto Jane's elbow to lead them all down the street. "Special Agent Agent Patel?" She guessed again.

Patel trailed a little helplessly along after the two women. "My name isn't agent."

"Well, why did you say it was?" Ariana asked, but she didn't seem to care about the answer. She certainly ignored his groan of frustration. It only took a couple of minutes before she led them into a courtyard of a nearby apartment building. She removed her hand from Jane's elbow and dug in the pocket of her shorts to pull out a key. She led them into a well-kept living room. "Pops? I'm home, dude," she called.

Jane looked around, taking in the eclectic collection of furniture. A hideous green arm chair had a place near the front window. Color notwithstanding, it looked quite soft and cozy. A plain and elegant rocking chair had a place next to the sleekly curved lines of an end table. A couch sat along the wall – also looking rather comfortable. There were water colors on the wall, photos in frames on the mantle above the fireplace, and a cat lying in a puddle of sunlight on the floor, ignoring the interlopers to his kingdom.

Then a wizened little man came out from the back of the apartment. He shuffled along with his walker, and his faded blue eyes studied the strangers in his home. "Good run, Ari," he asked, his voice rough with age? "Looks like you had some excitement."

"Some, Pops." She agreed. "This is Jane and Agent Patel."

"His parents named him 'agent?'" The old man asked with a grin.

"I know, right?" Ariana grinned back. "Jane, Patel, this is my grandfather, Louis Malone. Pops," she said, "I'm going to look at a cut on Jane's hand. Then I'll clean up and we can head out, okay?"

"I'm in no rush, kiddo," he assured her.

"Thanks, Pops." Jane liked the way that Ariana pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to the old man's temple. "This way, Jane."

She led Jane into a kitchen with walls painted a sunny yellow and a red Formica table with matching chairs. "Have a seat, lady." Ariana set about pulling the tools and supplies she thought she would need. She slipped on a pair of glasses before she washed and dried her hands. "Are you allergic to latex?"

"Uh, no." Jane felt bemused. Ariana was a force of nature. A friendly, impish force and Jane found herself smiling at the thought.

The doctor smiled back, then offered. "What do you think? Do you want me to numb the area before I start cleaning and stitching?"

"I really need stitches?" Jane suspected that that would be a drag.

Pursing her lips, Ariana studied the sluggishly bleeding wound again. Then she pulled an oddly shaped squirt bottle closer. "I'm going to irrigate the wound." She said. "Clean it out so I can see a bit better. It will sting. Keep breathing, nice steady breaths, yeah?"

Jane nodded. She'd had worse. The bullet wound, for example, had burned like crazy when she'd first been hit. Taking the other woman's advice, she watched the doctor work and waited for the verdict.

"Sorry, Jane." Ariana apologized. "Yeah, the cut is deep enough that I need to recommend stitches. Are you on board with that?" She smiled as Jane huffed out a sigh and then nodded in agreement. "And the lidocaine? For the pain?"

"No," Jane decided. "I'm good."

About ten minutes passed as the doctor worked. Just before Ariana put in the last few stitches, Jane winced when she heard Weller's voice booming through the apartment. "Jane!" Then he was in the room, towering over both of the women, demanding, "are you okay?"

Before Jane could answer, Ariana snapped at the lead agent. "Stop bellowing and move back. You're in my light, moron."

Weller's gaze jerked to the red-head wielding the needle over Jane's hand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Who the fuck are you? The bull in the china shop? I said stop bellowing and move back. Don't you listen?"

The tension in the room ratcheted up, but Ariana calmly put in another suture and met Jane's eye. "What?" She asked. Her eyes were alight with mirth. "Wrong thing to say?"

A bubble had been growing in Jane's chest. She thought it was a result of the tension, of Kurt's anger, of Ariana's intemperate words. Once she saw Red's teasing grin, she realized how wrong she was.

The bubble was laughter.

She felt it burst, deep inside. She tried to keep it there, folding her lips tightly together. The unholy glee that blossomed on Ariana's face told Jane that the doctor knew exactly what she was fighting. Jane couldn't help it.

She giggled. Still trying to tamp down on her amusement, she brought her uninjured left hand to cover her mouth. It didn't help. She guffawed.

Then Ariana chuckled. That was it. Both women lost it.

Jane's eyes flickered to Kurt's face and the confusion she saw there – along with Ariana's free and joyful laughter – made everything worse. She jerked her eyes away, but that didn't stop her from choking with laughter until she was howling with glee. She laughed until she was breathless. From the wheezing coming from the doctor, she was in the same boat. Jane couldn't have explained what was so funny, or why she couldn't stop laughing. That didn't seem to matter, though.p"Oh, good Jesus god," Ariana rasped. "Sweet mother-fucking Christ, that hurts."

Jane knew exactly what she meant. Her sides ached, too. Trying – more successfully – to calm down, she averted her eyes from both the amused doctor and the irritated agent. Her shoulders kept shaking with occasional – but silent! – giggles.

Red cleared her throat as she tried to turn her attention back to the job at hand. "Sorry, Jane," she choked out. "I'm done. Er…with the stitches. Let me put a bandage over that. Then you'll be done."

It seemed that whatever imp resided in Ariana's brain was catching. Jane heard herself say, "I hope by 'done' you don't mean dead."

Ariana's eyes darted towards Weller before meeting Jane's glance. "Well, if looks could kill." She let out a giggle. "Oh, fuck it. You are a bad woman, Jane. I blame you."

"You started it." Jane shot back.

"Yeah." Ariana agreed with a grin and a sigh. "I sure did." She gave the tape holding the gauze bandage in place one last pat and stood up. "I never could resist poking the bear. Character flaw. I'm going to grab an instruction sheet for you. Don't," she fixed Weller with a small glare, "bully her while I'm gone."

"Jane," Kurt breathed once the doctor had left the room. "What the hell was that?"

She tilted her head to the side and studied him. She thought about Ariana, the way she gave clear and concise orders to Patel while they cared for the victims of the car accident, how she'd scolded – without any true heat – when she realized that Jane had been injured, the gentle kiss she placed on her grandfather's head, the way she stood up to both Patel and Weller…just her sheer cussedness. Then, she had the answer. "That is my friend, Ariana."

 **BlindspotBlindspotBlindspotBlindspotBlindspot**

The name "Ariana Malone" has been shameless stolen from the 1990's show "The Profiler." One of the characters - FBI Agent Bailey Malone - had two daughters: Francis - who appeared on the show - and her younger sister, Ariana. As far as I can remember, Ariana never appeared in any of the episodes. Years ago, when I watched "The Profiler," I hated the character of Francis and then began to create a head cannon around Ariana. Oddly, this is the first time I've been able to actually finish a story with Ariana guest starring in it. Just a fun fact and some insight into how my bizarre brain works.


End file.
